


a toast

by youcouldmakealife



Series: always in tandem [58]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “Well,” Melissa says. “That was only medium level awkward.”Georgie snorts.
Relationships: OMC/OMC
Series: always in tandem [58]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1207269
Comments: 11
Kudos: 170





	a toast

Georgie always feels strange in the lull between Halloween and Thanksgiving. He has since he was a kid, really; maybe it was the clean wash of a new season, when everything was still up in the air; a hot streak at the start could still end with his team out of a contention, a losing record could be a blip, though it never felt like that at the time. Maybe it’s because from Thanksgiving on it was The Season, his mom taking on Thanksgiving like it was a graded test, then going straight into the Christmas season, none of them emerging from a cocoon of her three favorite Christmas albums, too many cookies and trips to the garage to unearth box after box of Christmas decorations, more than they could ever find a place for.

The season always feels warm, if sometimes a little overwhelming, a little too much. Not so much since he’s moved out of course, echoing empty in comparison. He’s considering buying a tree for his place this year, but he doesn’t know if there’s really a point — he spends as much time at Melissa’s as he does at his own, and he’ll be in Providence on Christmas day, that or break his mom’s heart. She’s said Melissa is welcome, but Georgie’s held off on asking, wants to see if she has any big plans with her family first, doesn’t want her to feel obligated. He’s sure the Stones aren’t as Christmas crazy as the Dineens, but he’s also sure they want to see her. 

Quincy does Thanksgiving, and that Georgie does invite Melissa to. Well, Quincy does Thanksgiving twice; he already did one in October for the Canadians, and this one’s for everyone else, though in practice the Canadians are showing up anyway, which Robbie had been vocally indignant about in the room right up until Dougie threatened not to make anything for the potluck, ‘since Canadians were clearly not invited’, and Georgie could hear Robbie’s teeth audibly click together he shut his mouth so fast. There was no more effective way to have the room turn on Robbie than depriving them of Dougie’s cooking, and Robbie was clearly smart enough to know that. 

Georgie knows better than to make anything himself, offers his services on chips and drinks for the kids, gets a call from his mom while he’s waiting in the longest line in history to check out, surrounded by the other Thanksgiving procrastinators. She sounds harried, a little overwhelmed, but he knows she likes that feeling in some way, topping herself every year. Everyone but him is home, Will even brought a new girlfriend along, and Georgie leaves the grocery store homesick and lugging about twenty pounds of juice and soda, his mom promising to give him her opinion on the girlfriend when she calls him again. He’s sure she’ll say she’s great, and hopes it’s true, because Will deserves the best. He’ll make sure to get a second opinion from Dicky, who’ll be less diplomatic.

Quincy’s house is already packed when they arrive, Quincy’s wife Lea insisting on introducing Melissa to everyone while Georgie puts the drinks in the cooler and the chips on the counter. He tries to be fast about it, because he knows it has to be overwhelming, walking in somewhere you don’t know a lot of people and being introduced to far too many people to remember their names even a minute later, but there’s only so fast he can cram drinks into gigantic coolers, empty chips into bowls, though Dougie and his girlfriend quit chatting in front of the stove after a minute and start helping him, which cuts down the time a little.

Still, it takes long enough that Melissa’s no longer getting the tour for Lea. Long enough that she’s found a plate of something, found a seat on the couch. Found a conversation partner, which should be a good sign. Except it’s Robbie, so it isn’t.

Georgie walks over a faster than probably seems casual, but then — he cares less about seeming casual than cutting off whatever’s happening if Robbie’s decided today he’s going to have claws. Not that he doesn’t think Melissa could fend for herself, because she absolutely could, but she’s never done anything to Robbie, doesn’t deserve anything he might aim her way.

Robbie raises an eyebrow at him when Georgie sits down heavily beside Melissa, like he knows exactly what Georgie’s thinking, keeps listening as Melissa talks about — okay, craft beers, which is a bit of a hobby of hers, her fridge always stocked with some new session ale or some weird fruit sour or limited edition seasonal thing. It seems like the only part of Christmas she’s interested in embracing are the Christmas themed beers, which have replaced the pumpkin ales in her fridge. 

Georgie’s been keeping his eye out in every city they’ve played in, trying to get together enough local beers she wouldn’t otherwise have a chance to try to make her an advent calendar. He’s got 28 of the 31 one so far, and they’re up in New York next, so he thinks he’ll manage to make it. He’s pretty sure she’ll mock him for being his mother’s son about holidays or something, but she’ll also enjoy it.

The words ‘there’s great stuff coming out of Boston’ leave her mouth, and if anything would win Robbie over it’d be that, not that Georgie has high hopes.

The two of them start talking about specific breweries, some Georgie knows and some Georgie doesn’t, assumes are from Massachusetts. He drank a lot when he was in Boston, but it certainly wasn’t craft beer. Whatever booze older teammates gave them and mixers were all that Georgie and Robbie could afford at the time, maybe some PBR or Natty Light if they were having a chill night. Now they’re sitting inside a multi-million dollar home, multi-millionaires themselves. Living the dream, Georgie guesses.

“You didn’t get me anything?” Melissa asks, elbowing him in the side as he takes a sip of Guinness.

“There were like fifteen different kinds, I figured you’d want to pick for yourself,” Georgie says, instead of ‘I was coming over here to ask what you wanted and that got immediately delayed by me not wanting to leave you alone with Robbie for another second’. “Someone here is definitely big into craft beer.”

Georgie’s betting on Quincy. Partly because it’s his house, but also because of the big lumberjack beard he sports. Maybe it’s unfair, but he can’t help but associate those with craft beer now.

“Probably a good call,” Melissa says. “You want anything?”

“Another Guinness would be good,” Georgie says. He finds this one went down like silk. Which is what it’s supposed to do, but he hasn’t drunk a beer this fast in awhile. He guesses going from panic to discomfort to relief will do that.

“Robbie?” Melissa asks. “Want anything?”

“Whatever you’re getting yourself is fine,” Robbie says.

“Excellent choice,” Melissa says, and springs off the couch, dodging through the crowd clustered around the kitchen doorway.

“She’s got better taste in beer than you,” Robbie says.

“You think everyone has better taste in beer than me,” Georgie says.

Robbie raises a his beer bottle to Georgie, the twist of his wrist as sardonic as the twist of his mouth before he drinks to that.

“I like her,” Robbie says, and Georgie doesn’t know what that’s supposed to mean. That he likes her, maybe, maybe it’s as simple as that, but — it isn’t usual as simple as that with Robbie. “Melissa,” he adds, like that wasn’t clear from context. 

“Me too,” Georgie says finally.

“No shit,” Robbie says.

“It’s because she said there was great stuff coming out of Boston, wasn’t it?” Georgie says.

Robbie gives him the finger, but there’s no real offense behind it. “There is,” he says. “It’s a great craft scene.”

“If she said it I’m sure it is,” Georgie says. 

“But not if I say it?” Robbie asks.

“Because you’re completely unbiased about Boston,” Georgie says.

“I am,” Robbie says, chin up, stubborn, before even he can’t keep a straight face over that.

He drifts off not long after Melissa returns with beers that apparently meet his approval, and Georgie feels a twist of complication, relief and loss all bundled together.

“Well,” Melissa says. “That was only medium level awkward.”

Georgie snorts.

*

Georgie finishes the advent beer calendar just in time for December, and Melissa is as visibly pleased as she is mocking. “I haven’t had like, two thirds of these,” she says, and Georgie was hoping for her not having tried any of them, but he knows that’s hard to do. She has a whole beer app and everything, logs and rates beers every time she tries a new one, and she’s pulling that up almost as soon as she’s done examining his choices, and Georgie gives himself a silent pat on the back and browses Amazon for stuff for his family while she logs the first beer.

“Is it any good?” Georgie asks.

“It’s interesting,” Melissa says.

“So no?” Georgie asks.

“Interesting can be good,” Melissa says.

“So no,” Georgie says.

“Quit pouting at me,” Melissa says.

“I’m not pouting,” Georgie says.

“You did good work on the present, big man,” Melissa says with a pat on his shoulder. “That for your mom?”

“Maybe,” Georgie says. 

“I think she’d like it,” Melissa says. “It feels very Sharon.”

Georgie adds it to the cart, and makes a mental note to say it’s from Melissa. 

*

The Capitals string together wins for much of December, sitting comfortable in the standings when Georgie heads home for the break. Melissa’s doing Christmas with her family, and mom’s disappointed but understands. Georgie gets hugged about every five minutes — ninety percent of those hugs from mom, though his brothers and dad throw in a couple too — obliterates his nutrition plan, and returns to Washington with an absolutely absurd amount of cookies. He brings them in to the locker room, because him and Melissa can’t eat them all themselves, practically gets barrelled over by the rush of players heading his way. You’d think they hadn’t all just blown their own nutrition plans over the break. Well, Georgie thinks, looking over at Chaps, who’s one of the lone holdouts, maybe there are exceptions. Not many, though.

“Sharon?” Robbie asks.

“Yeah,” Georgie says.

“The snowball ones are the best,” Robbie informs Elliott, who promptly stuffs one in his mouth.

“I didn’t think you liked the snowball ones,” Georgie says, after he’s been plundered. There’s still a few dozen left, because his mom went a little nuts. Robbie had mostly crammed every single dark chocolate and cherry cookie he could find into his mouth and ignored the rest.

“They’re okay,” Robbie says, then grabs all the dark chocolate cookies left and wanders away, elbowing Dougie when he tries to take one.

Georgie bites down a grin. There are no snowball ones left — apparently everyone listened to Robbie on that. Those are Georgie’s favorite, but it’s fine. He still has some at home.

They play on New Year’s Eve, which sucks. Play in Toronto in the middle of a road trip, which sucks even more. The bars are all packed to capacity by the time they’re leaving the ACC, not a chance in hell they’re getting in, even as NHLers in a hockey city, especially since they just beat the home team. Maybe if they were the Leafs, but even then.

Apparently someone on the team or the staff had thought of that, though, because they’ve got one of the conference rooms in their hotel booked, plenty of wine and beer and food waiting for them. No harder stuff, which points to it being the team arranging it rather than some of the players. Some of the guys duck out early, either to hole up in their rooms, videochat family or the like, or, in younger guys’ cases, probably to see if they can wheedle their way into a club — it probably isn’t going to happen, but Georgie respects their optimism — while the rest of them mill around, eating and drinking, a little reserved, like they’ve landed into some sort of New Year’s purgatory, everyone checking their phones or watches once in awhile.

Georgie does his own rounds, sticking mostly to the edges. Lands where David and Rafael have their noses in their phones, untouched beer in David’s hand, untouched wine in Rafael’s.

Georgie asks after Jake and gets a somewhat halting description of spending Christmas and Jake’s birthday with the Lourdes, one that gets interrupted by the dude himself, judging by the small smile on David’s face when he reads a text, says, “I have to—”

Georgie waves him off, waves Rafael off too when he looks uncertain.

“Nobody’s leaving here until they get a new year’s kiss,” Quincy says after the countdown hits and there’s a scattered ‘Happy New Year!’, at least half drunk and very merry, and presses a smacking kiss to David’s cheek, which gets him going pink, then Rafael, who looks torn between amused and mortified, and everyone’s too busy laughing to take Quincy at his word, which is apparently absolute.

When Quincy gets around to Georgie he gets a kiss on the cheek that’s more scratch of beard than anything else before Quincy’s off to the next, and he snorts, rubs the tingle of it, accidentally catches Robbie’s eye as Quincy plants a kiss to his forehead, not interested in bending down too much, Georgie guesses. 

Georgie drops his hand, lets the smile still curling up fade, and looks down at his phone, texts Melissa to wish her a happy new year, doesn’t expect a text back for at least a few hours, because she’s working, and he imagines she hasn’t been able to take a breath for hours. When he looks up again Robbie’s wiping his cheek and laughing, Elliott laughing beside him, an easy picture to put together.

Georgie debates getting another beer or going up to his room now that midnight’s come and gone. He’s not tired, though, and he knows it’d just end up with him flicking through channels, flicking through websites, texting to see who’s up, everyone who is too busy celebrating to text him back.

He gets one more beer, tells himself it’s his last one. He misses the way New Year’s used to feel, not like it does now, a referendum on how he’s supposed to feel about things when he’s right in the middle of them. He sips the beer slowly, doesn’t want to be tempted into one more, a tipping point he needs to avoid, doesn’t want to leave yet either, even though he’s on the fringes of things, almost as alone as he would be in his room. Doesn’t really know why he stays.

“Hey,” he gets, Robbie with a beer in his hand, a hand shoved in his pocket. If he didn’t have the beer they’d probably both be, a clear as anything sign, ‘I’m awkward, this is awkward’. They talk almost every single day, plays and drills and ‘hey how are ya’ and it’s almost smoothed into routine, but sometimes it stutters like a broken record, and Georgie never knows why, never knows the trigger, just knows that he hates it, that Robbie hates it too, clear as day.

“Hey,” Georgie says, has to fight the urge to shove his free hand in his own pocket, hunch his shoulders. Mirroring him. Robbie would think it’s mockery, which is the only thing that keeps Georgie from doing it. 

“Happy New Year’s,” Robbie says, a twist of his mouth, a twist of his wrist, then the bottle to his mouth like he needs to wash the words away.

“You too,” Georgie says, and Robbie nods and then walks away.

Georgie finishes his beer in three long swallows, puts it down on the nearest table, and walks out the door.

“Was that me?” Robbie says, catches up to him in the lobby, all the elevators on upper floors. “That was like — that was a happy new year, not ‘get the fuck out of here, Dineen’.”

“I know,” Georgie says, watches one creep down. Ninth floor now. These ones move fast, he won’t have to wait long as long as no one’s catching it on the way down. “Hit my limit, probably time for bed.”

“It’s not even one,” Robbie says. “We don’t have practice tomorrow.”

Georgie glances over at him. He’s ruffled, probably got in a cheerful scuffle or two with Elliott or Devon or Dougie, lips slick, eyes dark. Tipsy at least, more than Georgie is. Didn’t pace himself. It’s supposed to be a celebration, and it is for him, hanging out with some of his best friends after a win, welcoming another year with a team he loves, playing a game he loves. Why would he pace himself? He doesn’t need to.

“Probably not a good idea,” Georgie says.

Robbie shrugs. “Not going to make you,” he says, but Georgie follows him back inside, to the impromptu bar, accepts the beer Robbie hands him, resolves that this will be the last one, absolutely will be the last one, stands adrift with Robbie a foot away, has no idea what he’s supposed to say.

“So how was, you know,” Robbie says.

“I don’t know,” Georgie says.

“Your year,” Robbie says.

“Fine,” Georgie says. “Yours?”

“Fine, yeah,” Robbie says. “Pretty good.”

“Good,” Georgie says.

“Yeah,” Robbie says, takes a sip of his beer, and that Georgie does mirror. “I don’t know what the fuck to say right now.”

“Guess we should have just left it at ‘Happy New Year’,” Georgie says.

“Guess so,” Robbie says. “So, you know. Happy New Year, Dineen.”

“You too, Lombardi,” Georgie says, and when Robbie takes another sip he does the same, and when he walks away Georgie doesn’t follow.


End file.
